Phobia
by Pashleyy
Summary: I knew this ache in me wouldn't go away. It wouldn't quell or dull or fade. This gaping chasm in me wouldn't mend because there was nothing there anymore. My heart wasn't mine anymore. It was his.
1. the Fear of Falling

Hello y'all! This is my first Twilight fanfic, so be nice! The idea's been stirring for a while. Yes, it as an original character. Yes it is told from that said character's POV. And yes it is all centered on our lovable (if not slightly aggravating) Jacob Black. There are probably a few people out there who wouldn't mind him as a furry couch, and I'm one of them! But my character? Not so much.

Enjoy!

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Phobia

**Preface  
**

Basiphobia  
_The Fear of Falling_

I bit my pencil and sat on the sandy beaches of La Push, trusty spiral notebook in hand. The soft spray coming off the ocean curled upwards around the edge of the beach, misting icy specks onto my paper and skin. I shivered and tucked my knees to my chest.

"Oh, it'll help you get over your writers block, Lorelie," I mocked in an amazingly high falsetto. "The beaches are beautiful in the winter, Lorelie! Bull_shit_."

I sneezed and sniffled the snot back up my nose. Not becoming, but who was around to see? That's right. No one. La Push was as crowded as Fork's Memorial Cemetery on a Monday.

A lone orange crab scuttled sideways from dune to dune, and stopped to squirm his beady eyes at me. I picked up a small shell and chunked it at him. It scuttled away into the waves. "Stupid crabs" I muttered irritably. "Stupid ocean. Stupid Forks."

My phone vibrated. I flipped it open to a text message.

_better yet?_

_Nope_. I replied.

It was sweet for Mike to check up on me. He didn't do it often (we weren't that great of friends), but it was the thought that counted. Hardly anyone paid much attention to a little old Southerner-turned-Washingtonian with quirky red hair and milk brown eyes. I mean, jeez. What a looker. I, at least, thought I was prettier than Isabella Swan (who everyone and their sweet dimple-cheeked mothers were infatuated with at one point. Stupid Arizonian.), but I think I was just kidding myself. I usually always do.

Mike had told me about La Push about two weeks ago when I lamented about my sweet Myrtle Beach back home where the sand was soft and sticky white, and where the waves were storm-cloud gray. I lamented about the great pier I had my first kiss on (by Bobby Brown, no less) and the warm summer nights where I would just sit out on the beach for hours into the night, listening to the soft crash of whispering waves. I could still close my eyes and hear my homeward-bound ocean, but I couldn't see it anymore. All I saw were the blue La Push watery waves and steep cliffs. Cold and frozen and barren.

Ironically lifeless.

I looked over to one of the bigger cliffs that stretched out from a small paved road, and trailed my eyes up to the tip top. A black blob stood there, at the top of that cliff, looking out towards the sea too. When I squinted, it was a man. "What the hell?" I muttered and stood, brushing the sand off my butt.

It was one thing to see a man on the beach tossing starfish back into the ocean, but a completely different matter to see a man about to cliff-dive to the rocky waves below. Curiosity got the best of me. And you know what they say, "Curiosity killed the cat."

Ah, but satisfaction brought him back.

"What the hell is he doing up there?" I shoved my notebook back into my purple over-the-shoulder bag and set off towards the steep cliff. I'd heard of the rez people cliff diving, but I never actually expected people to jump off cliffs. It was like murder suicide -- all in one.

The blob of person spread his arms, and stopped where I stood, and put my hands on my hips. I watched. "That idiot's going to get himself killed," I said to myself.

Then he jumped, spun in midair, and tumbled quite silently into the blue fathoms below.

Despite my horrible fear of heights, it looked interesting (Fun would be the word if I was totally insane). I just hope he wasn't dead.

"And if he is," I shrugged, "not my business."

About to turn back towards my old gold Taurus and head home, I heard a whooping holler of joy. My feet froze to the sand. Damn curiosity. I waited until I saw him again, climbing towards the top of the cliff. He looked a bit slow going up, and tired. I began towards the cliffs again, and hoped I reached him before he went soaring.

"Hey, you!" I shouted when I reached the bottom. Typically, he didn't hear me. "HEY, ASSHOLE!"

That got his attention.

The man looked over the side of the cliff at me, and a puzzled expression lit his features. He scrunched his nose, looked back towards the cliff, then at me again, perplexed, as if he didn't notice me sneaking up to him and should have. After a moment, he began down the slight trail until he reached a lower cliff ledge, and bent over the edge. Rungs of water dripped from his hair, which was plastered to his long, smooth face.

"What did you call me?" he called down.

"I wanted to get your attention," I explained and waved it off hurriedly. "Why're you jumping?"

He scrunched his nose again, and his eyebrows furrowed. I must be some sort of mystery to him. A girl with red hair and milky brown eyes on a vacant beach near the rez? Yep, pretty mysterious if you ask me. "Why not?" was his reply.

"Good point, but I still don't see why you have to do it again."

"Is there a storm coming or something?" he sounded a bit sarcastic, and I had the foreboding feeling something had happened before with a cliff and a storm. I crossed my arms and glared up at him. He was mocking me. I hated people who mocked me.

"No, but it's stupid. Why do something again when the thrill's gone?"

He pulled a hunk of black hair out of his face and looked thoughtfully to the edge of the cliff again. His hair looked like it hadn't been cut in a while, and it probably hadn't. I itched to take some scissors to it (and his throat if he didn't stop mocking me). "How do you know the thrill's gone?" he asked.

"'Cause that's what happens when you do something a second time. It's human nature," I replied matter-of-factly and gave him a crooked grin. He mocked me again. OK, I hated him. End of story.

"Well maybe I'm not like other humans," he said, stood, and went up the trail again. He was so slow and casual and graceful, and his hunch reminded me of a predator, ready to pounce. Shit, he looked like he would explode out of his skin at any moment, the way he walked on the balls of his feet and climbed so silkily up. It enthralled me. Amazed me. And totally weirded me out.

I watched him until he reached the top, then shouted, "What's it feel like?"

"Like you're falling." He spread his arms wide, preparing to jump again, rings of water trailing his wake.

"Like parachute jumping or waterfall diving?"

"Dunno. Haven't done them."

"Well," I set my bag down and shivered again, "care if I find out myself?"

He spun back to me, surprised by my words. "From this height?"

I began to climb up after him, and soon reached the top. It wasn't that bad of a climb, and I was secretly glad my Dad was a wildlife hiking freak. Good thing I was in shape. "Yeah," I finally answered, realizing how freaking tall this native was, "from this height. I've dived from higher."

"Bull," he muttered and faced away from me.

"No, not bull," I pointed out. Down below, the waves crashed in dark icy crackles. It must've been freezing in the ocean, and dangerous. Some sort of thrill willed in the back of my mind. It was a long way down -- longer than I thought.

"So you're an adrenaline junkie."

I scoffed. "No way. I'm scared shitless of this height right now." And I was. All my strength was in my kneecaps right now so they wouldn't buckle. I pushed past him to the edge and twirled around to face him. It was kinda hard seeing I had to look way up. He must've been close to seven feet tall. "I just like to live."

And with that, I spread my arms, tilted back, and let the familiar sensation of falling overwhelm me. My heart went to my gut. My blood froze in my veins. My breath stopped. My thoughts echoed.

I might have hated the height, but I loved the fall.

"No -- STOP!"

My eyes flew open. I was already over the edge. He reached out with a long arm to try and grab me, but gravity was too fast. My hand slipped out of his. Our eyes connected for a split second. Dark, dark chocolate to my milky brown. Something stirred. Something lassoed. Something changed.

It was in that instant that I knew something was wrong. Not with the cliffs. Not with the water. Not with the cold chill. But with the fall. Not physically, but mentally. Metaphorically. Spiritually.

I fell hard. Far harder than I ever had before, and far longer. There was no ground anymore. It hurt.

I cried out in pain as fear filled his eyes, and he dove off the cliff after me, and reached me in mid-fall, and pressed me against his body. It was hot, and searing, and nothing felt right. This man was not right. We hit the water, and eons later, in the ice and freeze and chill of March, came to shore.

I stumbled out of the surf, coughing and clutching my chest, trying to breathe again, to get the icy rack from my lungs, the shiver from the tips of my fingers. And the sunken hole in the center of my chest, as if something had been wrenched from me. I crashed onto the sand and put my head on the ground and breathed. And it hurt.

Something wasn't mine anymore. Something wasn't mine to decide. I had fallen, and the fall had taken my most precious thing away from me. I knew this ache in me wouldn't go away. It wouldn't quell or dull or fade. This gaping chasm in me wouldn't close up, because there was nothing there anymore. Nothing for me to give. My heart wasn't mine anymore.

It wasn't mine to give.

"Oh shit," were his words when he caught his breath, "it's you."

My heart was his.

* * *

_Continue or No?_


	2. the Fear of Dreams

OK! Now to the fun part! Jeez, the first chapter is always the easiest to write, ya know? I mean, you get this idea and BAM! your fingers are flying faster than a NASCAR. And then you get to chapter two and you're all like "...so where was I going with this again? OH YEAH!"

So, here's my OH YEAH! Chapter. Awww, ain't it a cutie? Just want to pinch it's little cheeks! _(cue pink and huggable snuggle)_

THANKS EVERYONE for the **reviews**!! They were amazing and awesome! I really had no idea how people would take something like this...THANKS SO MUCH! You make me all want to dive into a vat of swirling chocolate ice cream! In fact, maybe I will!

Triple snuckle brownies for everyone!!

Enjoy!

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Phobia

**Chapter One**

_Oneirophobia  
_the Fear of Dreams

_ "Oh shit, it's you."_

I jolted up in my seat, gasping for a little cramped Greyhound breath. The bus rattled on, shifting and swaying along the curvy Washington road. Oh God, I was still on the bus. I was still traveling. Sweat slid down my brow, my hands quivered, my lungs rattled. Oh my God.

A dirty-looking man who sat opposite of me scrunched closer together in his seat and eyed me suspiciously. I tried to ignore him.

It's best to ignore people when you're a young lady traveling alone.

Shakily, I pulled myself into a proper sitting position and rubbed my eyes to get the nightmare out of them. Where was I? Last I remembered the bus was passing close to Olympia, and had taken the Byway north. Must've fallen asleep between there and whoever I was now.

At least it was comforting to know that we were past Olympia. I was almost to my destination -- if you'd call it that. Jail might be a better word. Prison. Dungeon. _Reformatory_… I could go on forever.

The dirty man gave me a crooked yellow smile, and timidly waved.

I shuffled through my duffle bag and took out my iPod. Ignore him. Ignore him.

"Hey purty lady. Where ya headin'?"

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

"Gots'ta nice purty face. Wha'cha doin' all the way out 'ere?"

I plugged the earphones into my ears and turned up the _Motion City Soundtrack_ to full blast. The lead singer screamed at me about broken hearts. As if I needed any screaming about that.

Despite having a dirty little middle-aged pervert checking me out, I wasn't all that frightened. It shouldn't really surprise you, seeing that I'd been on a Greyhound for most of the week. I live in Maine -- or maybe I should say I _lived_ in Maine. Not anymore.

The whole fact that I was now McJob penniless didn't worry me either.

What _did_ worry me was that dream. I had no idea who in the hell that man was. Maybe he was a figment of my sub-consciousness? A level deeper than wherever I tend to go in my intro-therapy sessions? It sure felt real enough, though. With the water, and the mess of a beach. And the waves. And how exact my notebook looked to the battered mess of pages sunken to the bottom of my duffle bag. It felt so real that it scared me.

Shake it off, Lore. Shake it off.

"Port Angeles? Yeah, that's where yer headin' right? A purty girl like yerself goin' to that thur big city!"

The flattery was getting annoying. I turned my head towards the passing scenery, and met stark green pines. Where in the hell _were_ we?

Just as the question bubbled up in my throat, the bus began to slow on squelching breaks, and come to an exhausted stop beside a dilapidated bus stop. I looked around. There wasn't anything in sight. Living or dead. In the far corner of the window, smoke puffed up in fat ringlets from the mountains of trees, but I sure as hell wasn't hiking that far.

"Menken. Lor-ee-lea Menken. This is your stop," the old crone of a bus driver rasped between wads of chewing gum.

The dirty little rascal opposite of me paled. "No way! Yer gettin' off _'ere_?"

"Why not?" I finally snapped. "It's a good enough stop as any!"

"But this is--"

I reckon I should have let him finish, but I was kinda pissy at the moment. He wasn't the only one who was shocked shitless at where I was getting off at. Mom had told me a lot of things about where I was heading, and this was not a part of the brochure. "You know, I don't care. Good day."

So I left the bus with my duffle bag and waited patiently for the bus driver to squeeze my only suitcase out from two very nasty-looking trash bags from the underbelly of the Greyhound. She finally managed, and handed it to me triumphantly.

"Take care, dearie," she said.

"Thanks."

The old crone loaded back onto the bus, revved the engine, and chugged away. Good woman. Shame she didn't get my name right. And that she left me in fucking No- Wheresville.

OK. So here's the picture:

Imagine a somewhat tall, slightly chunky Molly Ringwold standing underneath a senile bus rest, a neon blue Marching Catband duffle bag slung over her shoulder, one iPod earphone hanging limp from her ear, her hands clasped white-knuckled around a retro 70s luggage case decorated with Guitar Hero stickers. Imagine her looking wide-eyed around at the towering evergreen pines, down the long and winding Bypass, and finally up at the gray-splattered sky. Imagine her screaming raging obscenity after fiery raging obscenity at the clouds, thinking she could shoot them down to bright shining rays of sun.

Then imagine the shock she got when she looked directly in front of her…

…and found the dirty little pervert staring right back.

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_Continue? Or No?  
_


	3. the Fear of Noise

For some odd reason, listening to Twilight playlists while writing Twilight fanfiction while lurking on the Twilight Lexicon while reading Fandom!Secrets about Twilight seems a bit obsessive... but I like it! Thanks everyone for the reviews! And I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint!

Ready to see Jake again? I am!

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Phobia

**Chapter Two**

_ Acousticophobia  
_ Fear of noise

OK, so the first thing that crossed my mind was -- children, cover your ears -- "Oh fuck."

The perv cocked his head, and across his face slithered a grin that curled my insides and chilled me to the bone. White, perfect teeth lined his pale, perfect lips. His eyes sparkled black with bloody red. They weren't human eyes, or human teeth for sure. No part of him had been human for a long, long time. Suddenly, it clicked. I knew this man.

He was one of the reasons Mom was hightailing it to China, and I had a one-way ticked to Forks, Washington.

"You followed me from Maine?" I choked, my fingers numb as they wrapped in viselike grips around the handle of my precious suitcase.

In reply, his smile only widened to show more of those perfectly white teeth. I learned to fear those teeth six months ago. Chicago. Like a rainfall, the hazy memories began to return. I made myself stay still, keep myself calm. This wasn't fair. Why hadn't they sent someone more, I dunno, likeable? He tongued his teeth and stepped closer. Why hadn't I realized it was him beforehand? Sure, he had hacked off his hair, stole a hobo's wardrobe, and muddied himself up, but he was still indefinitely _him_. "I'm good at tracking," his voice resumed its liquidated velvet as if to answer my question. "Remember?"

"You're going to kill me, right?"

"Emery was right. You _are_ a smart cookie."

I looked around at what I had to work with. Nothing. Not even herbs or a big stick. Now if my works weren't packed up in my suitcase, I'd be a bit safer. Where was a hunting rifle when I needed one? Nevermind. I haven't lived this long by whining for what I didn't have.

"No," I tsked and corrected him, "you're just predictable."

And then I hurtled my duffle bag at him as fast and as hard as I could. He blocked it with one easy hand, but because I had packed it so full, the zipper burst and out spewed all of my clothes. All over him. Including my unwashed undies. He gave a disgruntled curse.

I spun and darted into the woods, my suitcase in tow.

"You can't hide from me, Lorelie!"

I dipped under a branch and kept running. The heady scent of evergreens was beginning to make me dizzy. Mom warned me about the whole forest-y smell. Why didn't I listen? I didn't see the root as I tripped over it and smacked into a small sapling. It scraped my cheek and flopped me to the ground. Pwned by a twig.

The tracker was at my feet the next second, his smile still and unmoving. He cocked his head again, like an animal appraising his kill, and from his chest came a low, dark growl.

Almost lupine.

The tracker gave a start. His smile dropped.

Wait. _Lupine_? Vampires didn't sound like dogs. They sounded like big furry cats, actually, hooked up to a megaphone. I'd know. It kinda runs in the family.

Heady evergreen became overpowered by a wet mushy smell. Of hair that'd gone way too long without being washed. It smelled like… I sniffed the air. Like wet dog.

This time, it was the tracker who hissed, and bent into a crouch, staring beyond me into the dense, dark Washington forest. A twig snapped behind me. A low hush of breath. Then another growl. A rumble. Deep. Dark. Slowly, I turned to look over my shoulder. My breath stinted.

OK, so Mom told me about the vampires. She told me about the grizzly bears and the rainy forest and the allergies. She told me about the small town of Forks, and the Native Americans who lived at the Reservation. Hell, she even told me about the rain that froze your eyelashes together.

She did not, however, tell me about the wolves the size of Chevy trucks.

And what does any self-respecting girl do when stuck between a wet dog and a bloodthirsty bat?

Well, she screams, of course.

The wolf lunged over my head, paws outstretched with killer claws to my tracker. And I was right in the middle of them.

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_Continue, or No?_


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